


Seven Years Bad Luck

by sebacielfantasies



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Bittersweet, Cotton Candy Fluff, M/M, angsty saruhiko, hurt!saru, lost small world references all over, misaki's pretty much a doting mom, these two are fun to write uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:35:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebacielfantasies/pseuds/sebacielfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saru breaks a mirror and gets himself seven years bad luck. Misaki's there to take care of him, though, so how bad can it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Years Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> \- Based off a prompt I found on tumblr some time ago, though I saw it so long ago I don't remember where I found it, sadly.  
> \- I don't own {K} or any of its characters.  
> \- Unbeta-ed  
> \- Hope you like it; I really had lots of fun writing it :)

With a loud shatter, the mirror breaks.

Eyes wide, Saruhiko watches the full length mirror shatter into a thousand tiny mirrors, all landing on the floor at his feet. He sees his surprised face reflected in the many many pieces on the floor.

"Saruhiko!"

Misaki's voice is booming, jarring; Saruhiko snaps back to his senses and turns to see Misaki staring at him, frozen at their apartment's threshold. His skateboard hangs limp between his fingertips.

"Hey," Saruhiko says, casually, as if there isn't pieces of glass surrounding him like water surrounding an island. "I thought you were getting groceries."

"Groceries? Dammit, Saru, you're _bleeding,_ and you ask me about the groceries? What happened?!"

Confused, Saruhiko looks down and wow, that's a lot of blood. Red liquid slides down from his hand to drip onto the floor, and his stomach twists a touch. "Isn't it obvious? The mirror broke."

"Well, duh, I heard that from a mile away—" Misaki grins, puffs out his chest, "Sharp ears like my mom, remember? But that's not what I meant—how'd you even break it?"

"Dunno." He shifts, starting to move out of the mess of glass. "It looked fine a second ago, and then it—"

"W-wait, stop moving! Do you want to get cut?!" Misaki bounds forward, ever the energetic one, and runs to the kitchen. When he returns, arms laden with a red dustpan and its matching red brush, he kneels down to sweep up the glass. "Don't move 'til I'm done, okay?"

Saruhiko makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, but stays put. Silence ensues, save for the scratchy sound of the brush on the floor and the tinkling of glass. Then, remembering his earlier concern, he says, "Where's the groceries?"

"Oh, that," says Misaki, and his voice comes out sour. The brush pushes another wave of glass shards into the dustpan. "I was too late and the place closed on me. Sorry, I thought I'd be able to make it in time with the skateboard, but—"

"There's still some ice cream left in the freezer, we can just have that again."

"Ice cream?" Misaki wrinkles his nose. "Saruhiko, we can't live on ice cream, you know! Aren't you worried about your diet at all?" He gives a small shrug, and Misaki groans. "I give up. Fine, we'll just have that, but only this one time, you hear? And tomorrow you better eat the vegetables I give you to make up for it."

"Yes, mother," Saruhiko deadpans, and he almost laughs at the angry scowl that forms on his friend's face.

A few more minutes pass before Misaki stands back up, the glass filled pan balanced carefully in his grasp. "Alright, the glass should be gone now. Stay right there, I'm gonna go get the medical stuff for your hand."

Misaki leaves, and Saruhiko stares down at his bloody hand, wonders how he would have taken care of this if he didn't have an overbearing mother for a best friend. He would have let it bleed, probably, since he'd know the blood flow would stop eventually. And if it didn't, well, that'd be okay, too.

His eyes are still on the blood when Misaki returns, a medical kit swinging at his side. He points to the couch with an order on his lips, "Sit." Saruhiko complies with minimal grumbling; that is, until Misaki opens the kit and produces a pair of tweezers.

"Hey . . ." A frown presses at Saruhiko's lips, "What are you doing."

"You have glass in your hand, what do you think I'm doing? If we don't get it out, it'll get infected." Misaki grabs his hand, none too gently, and Saruhiko winces.

"It's fine, just leave it alone—"

"Ready?" Misaki angles the tweezers towards his hand, eyes focused on the task in front of him. He looks up for a second to give Saruhiko a reassuring grin. "Let's hope I don't fuck this up . . . Okay, one, two, three!"

"Wait, wait, don't—" Saruhiko hisses, but it's already done. The tweezers are inside his hand for all of one second, and he grits his teeth, preparing himself—but then Misaki is smiling in triumph, and pulling the tweezers away to show him the glass pinched between the metal.

"There, was that so bad?" A washcloth is pressed to his hand, damp and cool, as Misaki cleans the cut. "By the way, remind me to get some rubbing alcohol next time we go out; I think we're out."

Saruhiko clicks his tongue. ". . . So annoying."

"Geez, Saru, I'm just trying to help," Misaki grumbles, crumpling the washcloth. "You could always say 'thank you', you know."

"You just stabbed me with tweezers, I'm good."

"Whatever, jerk." Unrolling some bandages, Misaki's voice is accusatory as he asks, "So, seriously, how did you break it? Did you really punch our mirror? Because that thing cost a lot, and you _know_ we're on a budget."

"I didn't punch it."

"Okay," Misaki says, brows scrunching up in a confused look, "then how did it break?"

In truth, he'd accidentally tripped and flung out a hand on the mirror to catch himself—hence the breaking of the mirror—but like hell he's admitting to that. "Well, it wasn't me. I don't know, maybe a ghost did it."

Misaki's hands, which were wrapping Saruhiko's hand with the thin, cheap bandage until that point, freeze in place. "W-what? That's not funny, Saru."

"I'm serious. And that would explain the lights flickering, too. You did notice that, didn't you?"

"T-that's just because this place is so cheap! N-not ghosts!" Misaki gives the bandages wrapped sloppily around his palm a sharp tug, causing Saruhiko to let out a pained grunt. "Ghosts would have no reason to haunt us anyway, right? Right?"

"Sure," drawls Saruhiko, "believe what you want, Misaki. But don't come crying to me when the ghost comes after you, too."

Misaki flashes him a glare, "Fuck you." After putting the medical supplies back into the kit, he stands up and stomps to the kitchen, and his exit is so dramatic that Saruhiko can't help but crack a smile.

He comes back with two bowls of vanilla ice cream, shoving one onto Saruhiko's lap. The other balances precariously on Misaki's knees as the boy flops down on the couch beside him.

"Your hand doing okay?" Misaki asks, words jumbled around a spoonful of ice cream. "I'm sorry if the bandage job was bad, I don't really know how to do stuff like that . . ."

Saruhiko can feel his blood pulsing painfully with every heartbeat, and the bandages Misaki wrapped are already loosening. But he replies with, "Fine," because the fact that Misaki tried is more than enough. "Feels better already."

"Really? I'm glad," Misaki's smile is blinding, bright and golden and alive. Saruhiko's glad he's one of the few people in this world to see it.

Saruhiko's halfway through his ice cream and suffering from a major brain freeze when Misaki speaks up again. "Oi, Saruhiko. You know what this means, now that you've broken a mirror?"

"I didn't break the mirror, the ghost did—" Saruhiko tries to interject, but Misaki's having none of it.

"The point is," says Misaki, bristling at even the mention of a ghost, "you broke a mirror, and that means you've got seven years bad luck."

He wants to say that he doesn't care; his entire life has been nothing but rotten luck after all, but then he looks at Misaki's shit-eating grin and realizes that isn't necessarily true. So he just clicks his tongue and says, "Suppose so."

"Not that you need to worry, though." Chestnut strands whip about as Misaki twists to face him, eyes crinkling. "I'll just be your bodyguard for the next seven years, easy peasy. No bad luck's getting through me!"

The words don't do wonders to Saruhiko's heart. Even if it's only a joke, he feels his chest tighten up, his breath snag. He looks to the side, away from Misaki's proud smile and sparkling eyes. "That so."

"Yup," Misaki laughs, and punches him lightly on the shoulder. "I told you I protect my friends, didn't I?"

Saruhiko's not sure how to respond to this, but luckily Misaki's talking again before it can become a concern. Misaki—changing subjects like the wind does direction—starts to tell him about his day, gesturing animatedly, while Saruhiko listens, as always, and toys with his falling apart bandages.

Perhaps, he dares to think, breaking the mirror won't lead to seven years of bad luck after all. If Misaki's there as his "bodyguard", as he put it, Saruhiko doesn't see how they can be bad at all.

 

**~~~**

 

Fushimi Saruhiko wakes up in the SCEPTER 4 dorm room with a bad taste in his mouth.

The dull, gray ceiling above him is the first thing he sees, but the memory that's painted across his irises is vibrant, red hair and honey eyes and too bright smiles. Saruhiko pushes the memory away.

"SCEPTER 4," he murmurs aloud, as if to remind himself where he is. It's also to remind him where he's not. "This is SCEPTER 4."

He climbs out of bed, dresses in the blue uniform that he's finally getting used to and slides on his knee-length boots. He moves over to the full length mirror to do something about his bedhead, fix the strands of hair into a hair style he only recently started doing.

In the mirror, his reflection's expression is stoic, hollow. His movements feel mechanical as he combs through his hair to style it, and he can only hope the process gets easier with time.

Once he's finished, he stares at his reflection, new and improved and so very blue. As long as it's not red, though, anything's fine.

The longer he looks in the mirror, the more fleshed out the memory he's been thinking of becomes, until it's vivid and painful in his mind, playing out like a movie. The mirror, the shards, the luck.

"Mi-sa-ki," he says, even though there's no one here except him but he doesn't really care, "did you enjoy playing as my bodyguard against bad luck? Was it fun, protecting me?"

His palm hits the mirror, right over his reflection's HOMRA mark. He doesn't want to look at it, doesn't want it to be there in the first place.

"It's more fun being Mikoto-san's bodyguard, though, isn't it? Protecting him, and the rest of those guys—though it's not as if any of them need protecting. It's not as if _I_  need protecting."

He presses too hard—a crack spreads over the glass, then another, until there's cracks spiraling out from his hand like spider threads. A laugh bursts from his lips, and he digs his fingers in further.

"Look at that, Mi-sa-kiii, seems I've got myself some more bad luck, eh?" As if on cue, the mirror shatters, taking his laughter and that cursed HOMRA mark down with it. Unfortunately, he knows the real mark is still trapped on his chest; nothing can remove that. "Seven more years of bad luck, all for me."

He pulls his hand back when he feels it stinging, and isn't surprised to see the shards piercing his skin. Only this time there's no one to take care of it, so Saruhiko just stares and stares and stares.

The blood flow will stop eventually. And if it doesn't, well, that's okay, too.


End file.
